JINGLE ON MY SON!

12.10.18

sing of my home citysing of a true geordie heartsing of a river swell in mesing of a sea of the cannysing of the newcastle day

sing of a history of poetrysing of the pudding chare rain sing of the puddles and clartssing of the bodies of sailorssing of the golden sea

sing of our childrens’ laughtersing of the boats in our eyessing of the bridges in sunshinesing of the fish in the tynesing of the lost yards and the pits

sing of the high level railwaysing of the love in my facesing of the garths and the castlesing of the screaming lassessing of the sad on the side

sing of the battles’ remainssing of the walls round our dreamssing of the scribblers and dribblerssing of the scratchers of livingssing of the quayside night

sing of the kicks and the kissessing of the strays and the chancerssing of the swiggers of alesing of the hammer of memorysing of the welders’ revenge

sing of a battered townscapesing of a song undergroundsing of a powerless wastelandsing of a buried bardsing of the bones of tom spence

sing of the cocky bastardssing of a black and white tidesing of the ferry boat leavingsing of cathedral bells cryingsing of the tyneside skies

sing of my mother and fathersing of my sister’s kindnesssing of the hope in my stridesing of a people’s passionsing of the strength of the wind

KEITH ARMSTRONG(as featured on BBC Radio 4)

WILLIAM BLAKE IN THE BRIDGE HOTELA few pints of Deuchars and my spirit is soaring.

The child dances out of me,

goes running down to the Tyne,

while the little man in me wrestles with a lass

and William Blake beams all his innocence in my glass.

And the old experience sweats from a castle’s bricks

as another local prophet takes a jump off the bridge.

It’s the spirit of Pat Foley and the ancient brigade

on the loose down the Quayside stairs

in a futile search,

just a step in the past,

for one last revolutionary song.

All the jars we have supped

in the hope of a change;

all the flirting and courting and chancing downstream;

all the words in the air and the luck pissed away.

It seems we oldies are running back

screaming to the Bewick days,

when a man could down a politicised quip

and craft a civilised chat

before he fed the birds

in the Churchyard.

The cultural ships are fair steaming in

but it’s all stripped of meaning -

the Councillors wade

in the shallow end.

O Blake! buy me a pint in the Bridge again,

let it shiver with sunlight

through all the stained windows,

make my wit sparkle

and my knees buckle.

Set me free of this stifling age

when the bland are back in charge.

Let us grow our golden hair wild once more

and roar like Tygers

down Dog Leap Stairs.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

GRAINGER MARKET

(1)

A city within a city

light cage

bazaar and blindthese swollen alleys

flow with a teeming life’s blood

Geordie !

Swim for your life !

(2)

this is lifethe gloss and the fleshweigh-house of passion and flame

you can get lost in this market’s amazementbut you can never lose yourself

sometimesa sleep-walk in these grazing crowdscan feel like a stroll through your brain

MAUD
WATSON, FLORIST

bred
in a market arch

a
struggle

in
a city’s armpit

that
flower

in
your time-rough hand’s

a
beautiful girl in a slum alley

all
that kindness in your face

and
you’re right

the
time are not what they were

this
England’s not what it was

flowers
shrink in the crumbling vase

dusk
creeps in on a cart

and
Maud the sun is choking

Maud
this island’s sinking

and
all that sleeping sea is

the
silent majority

waving

Keith
Armstrong

GREY’S MONUMENT

Grey –this man and his brain’s conception,clasped in stone.Disdainful figureraisedon a firm dry finger;proud-stiffabove a time-bent avenue of dwindling lights.

The Earl’s pale forehead is cool and cloudy;unblinking,he views us all (as we view him)in the same old, cold, way –through the wrong end of a battered telescope,through the dusty lens of history.

Strip away the tinseland this city’s heart is stone.

Keith Armstrong

BLACK GATE

Black Gate,an oxter of history,reaches for mewith a stubby finger,invites me into Old Newcastle,its vital castof craggy characters,Garth urchins,dancing bladesand reeling lasses.Black Gate,I can readthe lines on your brow,the very griton your timelined walls,the furrowed pathdown the Geordie lanewhere Alexander Stephenson stoopsto let me inand the merchant Patrick Blackstill trades in memories.Once there was a taverninside you,that’s why the bricks cackleand the windows creakwith the crack of old aleand the redundant patterof publican John Pickell. Black Gate,you could saymy childhood is in your stones,my mother and father figures,my riverof drifting years,waiting to greet me.Hoist up your drawbridge,in the startling chill of a Tyne dawn,this boy is with youand with himselfin this home cityof old bones,new bloodand dripping dreams.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

*The Black Gate is named after the seventeenth century merchant Patrick Black.

CASTLE KEEP

Keep, this history by the river.Keep, the stairway to the past.Keep,the memories singing folk songs.Keep,the cobbles wet with blood.Keep,those ballads down the centuries.Keep,the ancient voices in your head.Keep, these stones alive with music.Keep,the wind howling in the brick.Keepthe days that speed our lives. Keep,the rails to guide you there.Keep,the people that you meet.Keep, the children's faces dancing. Keep,the devil in your fleeting eyes.Keep,the bridges multiplying.Keep,the moon upon the Tyne.Keep,the flag of lovers flying.Keep,your feet still Geordie hinny.

KEITH ARMSTRONGTHE SUN ON DANBY GARDENS

The sun on Danby Gardenssmells of roast beef,tastes of my youth.The flying cinders of a steam trainspark in my dreams.Across the old field,a miner breaks his backand lovers roll in the ditches,off beaten tracks.Off Bigges Main,my grandad taps his stick,reaches for the braille of long-dead strikes.The nightsfair draw inand I recall Joyce Esthella Antoinette Gilesand her legs that reached for miles,tripping over the stiles in red high heels.It was her and blonde Annie Walkerwho took me in the stacksand taught me how to readthe signsthat led inside their thighs.Those Ravenswood girlswould dance into your lifeand dance though all the snow dropsof those freezing winters,in the playground of young scars.And I remember freckled Petewho taught me Jazz,who pointed me to Charlie Parkerand the edgy bitterness of Brown Ale.Mrs Todd next doorwas forever sweepingleaves along the garden pathher fallen husband loved to tread.Such days:the smoke of A4 Pacifics in the aftermath of war,the trail of local history on the birthmarked street.And I have loved you all my lifeand will no doubt die in Danby Gardenswhere all my poems were born,just after midnight.